Angel of Death
by Chiara Crawford
Summary: For eighty-two souls, he had been the angel of death tonight. For her, he was her salvation.


Title: Angel of Death

By Atri/ Chiara Crawford

RATING: R

WARNINGS: Violence

CATEGORY: Introspective, Dark, Romance

PAIRING: Sparky

ARCHIVES: , Command Dynamics

SPOILERS: Season One. The Storm, The Eye.

SUMMARY: For eighty-two souls, he had been the angel of death tonight. For her, he was her salvation.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Stargate: Atlantis.

I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s).

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**Angel of Death**

As she steps out onto the balcony, her wet clothes still clinging to her body, she walks silently towards him, stopping at his side and turning to look out at the ocean. The waters are calm, the heavy, dangerous storm clouds disappearing in the distance. It is still raining slightly, but the water droplets feel somehow soothing in the stillness of the early morning. Dawn is not far away. In the distance, she can see the sky lightening, promising for a beautiful sunrise.

She loves it here. Atlantis. Her city. It is everything to her. But she loves the early mornings, when she can see the sun slowly awakening the day, even more. He comes to keep her company very often, almost since the beginning of their dangerous and exciting journey.

Today, though, she can see the tension in his body. His dark uniform is wet, but it cannot hide the blood stains that are even darker. It is the evidence of his actions.

This night, he has killed twenty-two enemy soldiers with his bare hands, a combat knife and his P-90. She does not forget the sixty others, who almost entirely perished, when he activated the iris. For eighty-two souls, he had been the angel of death tonight.

For her, he was her salvation.

His black hair is ruffled and his emotionless brown eyes stare out to the sea. He is aware of what he has done. She knows that. Perhaps he even regrets it somewhere in the depths of his heart. Perhaps so does she.

And that is what scares her the most. That she is not sad about the deaths of these people. She has always been against violence, trying to find a peaceful, a diplomatic solution. Now, for the first time ever, she has had the urge to take a knife and slice the throat of those who had tried to take their city. It would have been bloody, messy and not something anyone expected of her, but had she had the opportunity, she would have done so without flinching, without the slightest hesitation. And she wouldn't have cared for the consequences at all.

It is violent and insane and it would have felt good! This has become her home, these people her family and she would have died a thousand deaths or sent as many enemies into hell, if that would have saved this city and its inhabitants.

He turns to her and their eyes lock. She can see the same feelings in them, can see the rage and fervor that almost suffocate all the light and leave only brown, dark orbs staring at her coldly. The cold, it is not aimed at her, she knows, but rather at himself. He does not feel guilty, or not as guilty as he thinks he should feel, and his honor demands him to repent, to suffer for his sins. It is not right that he does this and she is ready to beat that silly notion out of him, when he suddenly grasps her hand and pulls her into his arms.

It is a wet, cold embrace, but his body is firm and strong and somehow she is content and safe in this position. She leans her head back against his shoulder and entwines his hands with hers, squeezing them reassuringly.

It takes time. For long moments they are silent, satisfied with looking at the fading storm and the calm sea.

Then, his breath a whisper, her angel of death speaks and the words caress her left ear softly, his lips only inches from her skin. Perhaps it is fear or excitement or something else, but the warm air he exhales has her almost shivering.

"I killed eighty-two men today." It is a statement, an admittance to his self-imposed guilt. She doesn't answer him, knowing that this is not all he has to confess.

Some would find it strange, that he has sought comfort and understanding from her, but she was maybe the only one who could understand what he has been through. The willingness to shoulder all of the responsibility, to protect those he must; it is both his deepest wish and his most important duty. As it is hers.

There are some things that only leaders understand. And she is the only one who can give him solace.

"For some, it was a headshot." He continues and she braces herself for what she will hear. "Others, I simply sliced their throat. For just a moment, they were fighting for air, before going limp." Then, he goes on to describe every single one of his kills in all of their gory, glorious, details.

She can imagine the scenes perfectly, his voice taking her back with him to this night, making her walk with him through the city and raze their enemies, destroy them utterly. Sometimes, it is not his hand that does the deed. It is hers.

Silently, without moving, his actions and feelings become hers; one entity, its wrath on those, who dared to stand against them, who tried to _take _their _home_.

He falls silent, both her and him captured by the violent images his voice invoked.

"Major Sheppard. How's this for credibility? Weir is dead." The tone jolts her, hate raging through her veins and a certain amount of fear. Seconds pass before she recognizes that it is him, who spoke those words in a perfect likeness to the voice _he_, their detested enemy, used. She welcomes the hate and despises the fear, but these emotions are only a spark, not yet a destructive fire, because she finally gets the meaning behind his words.

Oh! The poor, poor man! For the first time this day, she knows _exactly_ why he fought the way he did this night. She knows why he was a man possessed, his wrath and vengeance felt by every single being in the city. Her angel thought her dead!

She squeezes his hands almost painfully, but he does not make a sound of protest, only tightens his embrace, nuzzling her neck.

"I swore to kill him." His voice is deadly, but aside from that, there is also a certain obsession, a want for retribution in it, that almost scares her as much as it excites her. With him, she is safe, she knows, but she cannot discount the notion that he would have brought down the whole city into oblivion with him and their enemies, had she truly been dead.

And it is due to his tone that she finally acknowledges, what has always been between them, almost from day one. It is something they have tried to suppress, to extinguish, but it burns too hot and too wildly for that to ever be possible.

She turns in his arms, her breasts pressing into his chest, his hands at her back and waist, and locks her eyes with his.

The darkness is still there, remnants of this bloody night, but it is not alone. Passion is bleeding into it, part obsession, part something else. She dare not call it love, for love should be calm and tender and warm, not this hot, molten, possessive feeling that jars her heart. It is violent, this passion, and needy.

And she cannot, _will not_, turn away from it. Somehow, she is certain, that he sees the same emotions in her eyes, because, suddenly, the spark erupts into the raging, destructive firestorm she so anticipated since the last of their enemies fell dead to the floors of their city.

His mouth, his lips dry and chapped, even though his body and clothes are wet from the rain, crashes down to hers, his tongue invading and fighting and taking. Hands, which had some hours before killed men for the safety of this city, become entangled in her hair, pushing her further into him, so that she can feel exactly what has awoken inside him.

She lets him ravish her mouth for a few moments, before she returns his ministrations with the same intensity. She cannot give him absolution – hell, she isn't sure that's what he wants –, but she can give him a reason for this madness. It is the same reason which drives her.

Her hands, one in his hair, the other on his ass, hold him firmly, pushing him to her. It must be painful, the way that her fingers bite into his skin, but he does not complain and neither does she, when he drives her against the railing, hands ghosting over her body.

Soon, wet clothes fall to the balcony floor, forgotten in the wake of the storm that now rages in them both. His eyes, once more looking into hers, confirm what she assumed. This is not about love or, at least, not entirely about it. This is all about release and feeling and rage.

He has killed today and she wishes she had and it is not enough! The destruction they rained onto their enemies, they now turn against each other. But it is a sweet decimation, as they bite and kiss and moan.

Her head is thrown back, as he sucks at her throat. His mouth gives an ardent roar, as she caresses the most intimate part of him.

Scratches paint their naked, wet bodies red like the blood that flowed through the city this night. Hungry tongues sooth and provoke the most delicious of reactions.

It is a coming together of two violent, raging forces of nature, when they finally unite as one. Rigid strength penetrates her to the core and as she stares into his eyes, full with abandon and release, she lets the last restraints upon her heart dissolve and allows herself to follow him into oblivion.

They rock together in a forceful dance, their minds in harmony because of their joined purpose. The rage that fuelled both of their spirits this last, horrible night is soon consumed by the zeal they feel for each other.

It is much later, when they come down from their fiery high. The soft rain has stopped sometime during their fervent encounter and their bodies glisten in the gentle light of dawn. His eyes are clear now, the darkness gone from her angel of death, but the passion he has shown her is still simmering beneath the surface.

His hands are stroking her reverently and a barely noticeable smile appears on his face. Perhaps she has not given him absolution, for that was not what she had intended to do, but hopefully she has given him and herself some peace from their own shadowy imaginations and desires – at least, for some time.

His lips descend to hers again, but it is not the raging ravishing mouth from earlier. He kisses her with veneration, conveying that, which she had doubted. This, she muses, is what devotion, what love should feel like.

And as she gazes back at him, she knows that he realizes that as well.

Later, much later, she will ask him to show her how to fight and how to kill, for she will never be helpless to protect her people or her city again. Later, much later, he will accept her desire with quiet, dark understanding and he will teach her what she wants.

The storm in them has calmed now, but she is certain that it will start up again. For now, though, both she and her angel of death are at peace.


End file.
